


Fractured Starlight

by kya2845



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crows as children, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kya2845/pseuds/kya2845
Summary: Stories of the crows pre-SoC and post-CK.
Relationships: Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa, Matthias Helvar/Nina Zenik
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47
Collections: Grishaverse Big Bang 2019





	1. Matthias

“Lisbet!”

The little girl giggled, running -- well, what counted as running -- through Matthias’ legs.

“Lisbet!” Matthias swivelled around, only to find the girl hiding under the table with her hands over her eyes. He grinned, then bent down and picked her up. “Now, Elisabet.” She pouted. “No running away, okay? If you do, the evil Grisha will come get you.” He bared his teeth for a second. “And we don’t want that.”

The girl just giggled again and swatted at him with a chubby fist. Matthias smiled again, then, still carrying the girl, turned around and called out, “Mamma! I’ve got her!”

Not that it had been particularly hard, of course, but his mother still smiled and ruffled his hair.

“Stay safe and be home before dinner, okay?” she said, taking Lisbet from his arms. The girl wiggled and pouted. 

Matthias grinned at her, then grabbed his coat. “Yes, Mamma! Bye, Lisbet.” Shrugging on the coat, he headed out. 

The town was small, and cozy, with haphazard rows of houses made with brick or wood and roof tiles dusted with early snow. In the center stood a giant ash, splayed branches bare in preparation for winter. The town was small, for on one side stood a wide river, its edges just beginning to freeze, and on the other, a forest. Just south of the village was a small hill, crowned with sparse shrubbery and the occasional bare tree. 

On the hill were three boys.

“Thaddeus! No fair!” Matthias cried, the skinny boy vaulted over a low bush. The smaller boy stopped, turned, and stuck his tongue out at him. Matthias, panting, stepped around the bush and charged after him, overtook him. _Just a little further._

When he reached the clearing, he collapsed. Groaning, he heaved himself onto his back, only to see his other friend crouching over him with the smuggest expression on his face.

“For the record,” said Mikkel, “That’s the third time I’ve won.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Thaddeus is coming. I can hear him,” The boy lay down beside Matthias, “You got better. Still not as good as me, though.”

“Shut up.”

Thaddeus arrived, then, heaving for breath, and crumpled to the ground next to Mikkel.

They stared at the slowly darkening sky until Matthias broke the silence.

“So,” he said. They all sat up.

“So,” Thaddeus countered.

“Who wants to--”

“Guys,” Mikkel interjected, staring at something downhill, “Who are those?”

Matthias sat up straighter and looked. Emerging from the edge of the forest were perhaps half a dozen people, dressed in deep blue and holding torches. The group made their way to the boundary of the town, then stop.

“That’s your dad, right?” Matthias nudged Thaddeus, pointing to the lone figure stepping out to greet the newcomers. The other boy nodded. Thaddeus’ father gestured to something and shouted, then pulled out his sword, pointing it at the strangers.

All three boys sucked in a breath.

One of the figures dressed in blue stepped forward. They raised their hands. Time fractured.

With a large, broad motion, the stranger _pulled_ the fire from one of the torches, sweeping it through the air like a fiery whip. The man with the sword tried to step back, stumbled, fell. The ribbon of flame struck him, then, enveloped him, the flickering red and gold stark against the melting snow. His scream was audible from the hillside.

“ _Inferni_ ,” Mikkel breathed, his voice low and shaking, “Bloody-- bloody _inferni_.”

But Matthias and Thaddeus were already tearing down towards the village, ignoring the path as they ran through the sparse shrubbery, trying, trying desperately to reach the houses in time. Before they even reached the foot of the hill, however, it was too late.

The town was burning. 

The houses, with their wooden frames, went up like matchsticks. Flames leapt between them, from house to house to tree to house as if in tune to some hellish dance, accompanied by an orchestra of screams and shouts and great plumes of black smoke, clogging the air with death. 

The town was _burning_. The town, the town Matthias had been in all his life, the town that currently held his _entire family_ , was burning. _Burning_.

Matthias stumbled towards it, choking, crying. The blistering heat pressed in on him, the acrid smoke surrounded him. He couldn’t see his own feet. Mamma, he thought, Pappa. He opened his mouth to form the words, but inhaled a lungful of soot instead. He stumbled, and fell face-first into a pile of coarse ash that burned his skin. Ash. The remains of some part of a home, and the remains of some family. Djel, the remains of _people_. 

He tried to crawl forward, tried to reach his family, his mom and his dad and Lisbet -- Lisbet! -- but only fell again. He lay there, coughing.

A hand reached out and grabbed him around the middle. No, no! He tried to twist himself free, but his limbs were weak and his vision was swimming. Someone clapped a cool cloth around his nose and mouth, and the world went dark.

It was a dream. It had to be a dream. It had to have been some kind of horrible nightmare, nevermind the ashes in his torn clothes and the bandages on his hands. Nevermind the smoke that still hung in the sky over the patch of empty land between the forest and the river. Nevermind the charred remains of bones and twisted lumps of metal. Nevermind the kind words from the drüskelle -- for it was the drüskelle, following the inferni, that had saved him.

Nevermind all that, because it was agony. His family -- his Mamma and Pappa and his little baby sister -- was gone. His friends were, too. Had Thaddeus burned like his father, lighting up like a torch? Had Mikkel suffocated, like Matthias should have? There were no survivors, bar him.

And it was the inferni that had done it. The inferni. Witches, demons, _Grisha_.

It was days before he spoke again, days before he coaxed his throat to form the words, quiet and rasping and empty though they were.

“How do I become a drüskelle?”

And one of the soldiers turned to look, look at the boy with the flat eyes and singed hair and the desperate, dark hatred in every tense line of his body. And he tilted his head.

“We’ll take you to meet Jarl Brum.”


	2. Wylan

The wood was cool against his cheek as he carefully pressed his ear to the door. 

“He’s your spawn, Marya, your failure.”

It was a wonder he could hear anything, really, over the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs.

“And your _son_ , Jan, you can’t—”

_Thump_. His heart in his chest. His father’s fist on his table. _Thump_.

“The bloody boy can’t read. The best tutors and education, and the imbecile refuses to _learn_.”

_Thump_. That was when the burning started in his throat, when his hand twitched against his side. He bit his lip. _I tried, Dad, I tried._

“Wylan has other talents. Maybe--”

“And will those other talents let him read? Will they help the boy survive when society comes at him like a pack of wolves? How will he sign a deal? How will he conduct business? He is _weak_. He will _crumble_.”

Wylan could imagine his father as he spat the words out, anger and disappointment in every line and crease of his face, his fists clenched and his knuckles digging into the elegant desk. Even as he wasn’t the target of his father’s anger, he could feel the rage lashing out at him like a whip of barbed wire, tearing at his flesh. And still he remained frozen, pressed against the door.

_Dad, I_ \-- he didn’t know what to say, or think. His breath came in ragged spurts. His mother was saying something, he was sure, but all he could hear was buzzing. His father’s words were the truth. Truth, ugly and jagged, truth that he’d been denying.

_Imbecile. Weak. Failure._

_Failure._

His mouth opened in an involuntary cry, and the voices fell silent. There was a pause, then--

“Do let the boy in, Marya.”

The door fell away. He stumbled in. The room looked different, every shadow pronounced, the light glaring and the furniture looming over him, cold and hard. Then there was his mother, sitting on a chair in front of the desk, beckoning him over. He went. She pulled him onto his lap and wrapped her arms around him, and it was time to face his father.

“Wylan,” his father said, voice weary, “I think it’s time we had a frank discussion. Do you have an answer to my question?”

His question. The one he had asked every evening since The Day He Found Out. _Why can’t you read?_ He would ask, his brow furrowed in confusion or frustration, the downward turn of his lip worry or disgust. It was an accusation, a concern. And Wylan had always answered it the exact same way.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. There was a pressure in his chest, on his shoulders, a fire burning in his throat and his eyes and the base of his skull. Through his tears, he could see the contempt flash across his father’s face -- rightfully so.

“Wylan,” his father said softly, “You make it hard to love you, but I do. And people who love each other tell the truth. Here’s the truth, Wylan. If you can’t read, you can’t survive. You won’t be able to step into the role of a merchant’s son. It’ll be impossible for you to conduct business, and even if I wasn’t a merchant, even if we lived in some impossible world--.”

“Jan.”

“Hush, Marya, I treat him no more harshly than the world will.” He laid his hands palms up on the glossy tabletop, a gesture of helplessness. “Wylan, I can’t apprentice you, I can’t send you off, I can’t raise you as I normally would. You are defective, Wylan, _weak_ , and the world preys on weaknesses. Once someone knew, you wouldn’t last a day.

“Do you see the problem, Wylan? But we can still fix it. We can still fix _you_. You just need to tell me why. Do you want more attention? Are your tutors not good enough? Is there a problem with your eyes?”

Wylan was shaking his head, the tears rolling freely now. His mother’s arms were around him, her voice in his ear, offering safety, oblivion. He wanted it. He wanted to fall into that warmth and nothingness, wanted to wake up from the dream.

But his father was trying to help. His father was telling the truth. The _truth_. His father loved him, and was telling the truth.

_Defective. Failure._

“Wylan,” his voice was sterner now.

“I--” his voice broke, sobs heaving in his chest. He could feel his father’s disappointment, slicing into him, burning him, piercing into his chest. “I-- I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer, boy!” His father’s hand slammed down onto the table. “Why can’t you read? Why didn’t you tell me? Why aren’t you telling me?” He raised his hand. Wylan shied away, pressing against his mother as if trying to pass through her, his sobs tearing from his throat. He wanted to be anywhere, anywhere else, anywhere where he wouldn’t have to face that wrath, that biting disappointment. He turned away, burying his face into his mother’s shoulder.

“ _Jan_.” The coldness in her voice surprised him, but he continued crying nonetheless. “If you hurt him, if you shout at him again, I swear by Ghezen I will take him and leave you. What would everyone say when it comes out that your wife and heir ran away?”

There was a tense silence, broken only by sobs and whimpers.

Then Jan Van Eck inclined his head. “Very well.”

“We need to talk, Jan.”

The man nodded, turning to the boy still sniffling in his wife’s lap. “Wylan, go to your room and stay there until I give you explicit permission to leave. Your mother and I are going to have a few words.”

Wylan felt himself being lowered to the ground, then turned to look at his father. There was nothing but hardness written in his expression.

He ran back to his room and waited.

He anxiously sat waiting on his bed, the low bookshelf taunting him, mocking him. He knew all the words in all those books, but if you showed him a page he couldn’t for the life of him tell you what was written on it.

He was a failure.

And when no dinner came to him that night, no water to quench his thirst, he accepted it. A little hunger and thirst wouldn’t kill him, and it paled next to the disgrace he brought to the Van Eck name, paled next to his father’s frustration and all the efforts wasted on him. Paled next to the shame and self-loathing welling up inside of him.

Even so, as his stomach growled a low hum and his lips cracked and stuck together as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep, he wouldn’t have minded a cup of water. Just one. Just something to soften the dryness in his throat and the ache in his stomach, even if nothing could ease his misery or soothe his father’s disappointment.

It took a long time to fall asleep.

It was late the next morning when his father informed him his mother had fallen ill.


	3. Jesper

It started with an itch. It always did. The itch in his fingers, the restless energy that he tried to ignore, building, bubbling up inside him until he couldn’t anymore. And he _knew_ , he _knew_ how to satisfy that urge, that itch, that tingling just under his skin. He _knew_ how the cards would feel sliding against each other in his hand, and how the Makker’s Wheel would click as it spun -- oh, that beautiful, beautiful sound. 

And he also knew, just about, that he’d likely lose. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was almost broke, that he’d soon be borrowing money for food, and that he still owed a couple hundred kruge to the last gambling hall he’d been to.

But he realized, as he found himself walking down the streets of the East Stave and searching out a high-stakes den, that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Debts he would worry about later, and for now, all there was would be the cards in his hands and the taste of risk on his tongue. And if it was nearly morning and there was nobody with him, well, as he stood in the shadows of the alleyway outside one of the gambling halls, he was very, _very_ grateful.

There was a Grisha standing outside Morpheus’ Palace. 

He almost stumbled when he saw her, dressed in a deep blue kefta trimmed with the intricate grey embroidery of a Squallor. She was tall, with hair, done up in an elaborate bun, just blonde enough to be Fjerdan. Pretty too, in an angular sort of way, her neck thin and her face sharp. 

There was a silver brooch pinned to the kefta, just above her breast, inlaid with crystals that shimmered in the faint light of the building. The symbol of an--

_Amplifier_.

_Shit_.

Jesper drew in a breath. The woman stiffened, turned her gaze to the alley he stood in. She read him in a glance.

_Oh, shit._

He tried to turn, run, but the Grisha’s eyes had locked onto his, trapped him in such an intense glare that all he could do was stumble a few helpless steps back as she started to approach, hand on hip, eyes like shards of ice.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Jesper cut in first.

“Hi, um, just passing through.” He almost winced. There were no other places in the region open at such an hour. He blustered on anyways, fixing an awkward smile to his face. “You know, I wouldn’t mind some directions to the nearest, um, restroom.”

A hand shot out and fingers clasped around his wrist. He flinched. The hand tightened.

“Are you really stupid enough to fabrikate inside a gambling hall?”

It should’ve been easy to reach for the pistol he carried on him. _Should’ve_. Not that it would’ve been much use anyways.

“Well, ah,” his throat was dry, his heart pounding, “I swear I wasn’t really planning on doing that.”

“And why would I trust you?” Her voice was sharper than her face.

“Because I,” he shrank back as far as her grip would allow, “Look trustworthy?”

An elegantly arched brow, a slight turn of her head as if to indicate _here? Trustworthy, here?_

She had a point. Unfortunately, that meant he didn’t. “Because I--” his palms were sweating, “I can’t fabrikate to save my life?”

One elegant eyebrow rose. “You’re a fabrikator, of course you can fabrikate.”

A swell of some odd feeling inside him. A tingling heat on his cheeks. “I’m not-- I wasn’t trained.”

Her eyes searched his face for a long moment before her grip loosened. Jesper snatched his hand back, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. Damn, the woman’s grip was strong.

It was then that a voice called out behind her, and she stiffened. Jesper’s hand flew to the pistol at his hip, but the Squallor raised a pale hand to stop him.

“I still don’t believe you, but I can’t stay and talk to you. Noon, Kooperom.” It wasn’t even a question.

Jesper, still trying to quell the beating of his heart as she walked away, forced a smile across his face. “Who’d refuse a pretty girl like you?”

It was almost worth the gust of wind slamming him into the wall.

His back still ached as he made his way to the Kooperom late that morning. He’d managed to dig up his tweed jacket from the university and a passable pair of black shoes that would probably fall apart before the end of the day, given how much he was shuffling and fidgeting. He adjusted the jacket.

He glanced at the clock tower.

He adjusted his jacket again.

Then, considerably past twelve, he strode into the Kooperom with a posture of forced relaxation. Then, he saw her. 

Her hair was done in a simple braid, her clothes plain and somewhat bland. When she glanced up at him, she merely glanced at the chair opposite her before turning back to her food with an entirely unimpressed expression on her face.

He gulped.

His heart thumping up in his throat, he strode over to the empty seat, sliding into it and draping a long arm over the back of it. He felt strange doing so, almost as if he was plunging into something incredibly dangerous, but, well, who said he was cautious?

“Why, hello--”

“Stop, shut up,” She glanced over at him, “And stop twitching. You’re late.”

“Fashionably, of course,” Jesper tried for a smile.

She ignored him. “What I want to know is,” she leaned back in her chair, “Why haven’t I heard of you?”

He blinked. “Come again?”

“Apart from the Council of Tides, the Grisha in Ketterdam know each other, or at least know of each other. Even the ones who don’t know of the rest of us are watched, and yet the only Zemeni fabrikator I know of is an old woman.”

Jesper blinked. His mouth fell open slightly, mouthing the beginning of something, but his thoughts had frozen.

“Now, that normally wouldn’t mean much, but last night you said you weren’t trained to use your powers. But with your power and any kind of regular usage, you’d be able to cheat in a gambling hall. And that made me think. If you were sincere, that means you don’t use your powers very much, do you?”

“Stop,” he finally managed to croak, his voice faint and his head spinning with how surreal the conversation was becoming. He knew on some level he was Grisha -- Zowa, whatever -- obviously, but to hear it spoken of so matter-of-factly with a stranger he’d met not even a day before in broad daylight in the middle of the Barrel… “Should we even be talking about this here?”

She gave him a small smile. “I’m a Squallor. They’ll hear what I want them to hear.”

_Oh. Oh._ He blinked. “Well, I-- um, no, I don’t.”

She looked at him seriously, her soup all but forgotten. “You have to know that’s not good for you.”

He looked at her blankly.

She sighed. “Look, I’m trying to help you. Grisha to grisha. What I’m offering is connections. You wouldn’t have to hide your powers so much if you had others looking out for you.”

And something clicked inside of him, and he started panicking. “No,” he shook his head, wringing his hands. _Nobody can know._ “No, don’t tell anyone.” His voice was wavering slightly. 

The woman’s face softened. “Are you sure?”

“Please.”

She looked at him, then offered a single-shouldered shrug. “You can always change your mind.”

There was a long silence in which the Squallor turned back to her soup. Jesper adjusted his jacket. 

“Well then,” he started, lounging backwards. His voice almost — but only almost — cracked, “You’re not married, are you?”

His chair tipped over.

The conversation carried on like that for a while, with him flirting and failing and being _incredibly charming_. Then it changed. He didn’t know when he’d started pleading with her, when he’d started rambling, wringing his hands, begging. He knew he looked pathetic, probably, but he was desperate enough to not care.

“Please, tell me.”

He hadn’t even gotten around to asking her name. 

“Please?”

Maybe it was when she’d hesitated when he’d asked after gambling halls without Amplifiers. Maybe it was when she’d turned him down for the third time and he’d finally accepted that. Maybe it was when she’d refused to answer when he asked her a direct question.

“Pretty please?”

And all she was doing was eating and ignoring him. She who knew something about hiding from Amplifiers. She who might know, being an Amplifier herself.

“Pretty pretty please?”

“Stop,” she said, her spoon clattering against the side of her bowl. Her expression was conflicted. “You know I shouldn’t tell you.”

“But you will?” 

She ignored him. “I have to go,” she said abruptly. Then, placing both hands on the table, she stood up. Before Jesper had even half risen out of his seat, a cry on his lips, the door had closed behind her.

_Well, damn._

His heart tightened inside his chest, and a cold shame flushed through him. He could give up any hope of an answer now. He’d scared off his date, or acquaintance, or possible future friend, or whatever she was. Or annoyed the hell out of her, if the speed at which she left was any indication. That was a new low, even for him -- Had he really been _that_ bad?

He sat back down slowly, looking at her empty dishes, then at the small bowl of soup he’d ordered that he hadn’t even finished.

_Damn_.

He hoped, vaguely, she wouldn’t tell anyone he was a fabrikator. Then he shook himself. He’d probably pissed her off, badly, and she had no obligation to do anything he asked. A knot tied itself in his stomach.

He really was an idiot, wasn’t he?

His face fell into his hands, but his gaze wandered, and he noticed the folded napkin under one of her plates. Huh. That was strange. The Kooperom didn’t provide napkins. He stared at it for a while, then reached forward and tugged it out, unfolding it. He looked at it in confusion.

Written across it in a slanting scrawl was one word. 

Paraffin.


	4. Inej

One of her earliest memories was of her mother’s voice, soft words in a lilting rhythm. Her hands kneading dough with calloused fingers and the ease of many years of practice. A smile as she turned to her little girl.

“So Lizabeta stood in that field of white roses, praying.”

And her mother stopped her kneading and leaned over to the table, gently lifting a rose from a bouquet.

“And the bees answered her, and drove the raiders away. Her village was saved.”

Her mother smiled again, and passed the rose to Inej, who grasped at it with a chubby palm.

“When she died,” her mother continued, “The roses turned red.”

Years later, when she’d listened to the story hundreds of times and had long since learnt of the far bloodier ending of Sankta Lizabeta, it was only one of many. She could recite the story of Sankt Ilya, or Sankt Petyr, or Sankt Vladimir, or any of the Saints, and though Lizabeta was still her favourite, she recalled every detail of how the the brave Sankt Juris slew his dragon.

It was these stories she took with her when she walked the tightrope, when she stepped out over near nothingness. She took courage from Feliks and strength from Alina and faith from Lizabeta. And it was faith that kept her steady, faith that kept her chin high and her steps even as the crowd held their breath and whispered among themselves of the tiny slip of a girl walking on gossamer thread. Faith in her skills, and faith in her Saints. She had her wings and her Saints to accompany her with every beat of her heart.

She was never scared of falling.

Once, a boy, fair-skinned and just a couple years older than her, walked up to her after a show. She had been taking off her headdress when he slipped behind the curtain.

_How do you do it?_ He whispered, looking at her with awe. _How are you not afraid?_

And Inej puffed out her chest and smiled. _My Saints watch over me._

The boy cocked his head. _But the Saints aren’t real._

_Nonsense_ , Inej had replied haughtily, turning away.

_But they aren’t!_ The boy called, and Inej fled.

Between performances and practice and family and life, time passed. She found herself sitting on the ground, a smaller cousin in front of her, telling the story of Sankta Marya, word for word as her mother would’ve done, except for the part where Marya still watched over them. Though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, those words didn’t feel quite right on her tongue.

She found herself falling, and a bump rising on her skull. She found herself staring at a crippled Ravkan boy begging on the streets. She found herself dreaming, weeping, watching. She found herself walking past a group of drunken men. _Pagan_ , they sneered, and one of them spat at her. _Gyppie loon_. 

_Kotiha_ , another shouted, his Suli coarse and broken. _Kotiha!_ He shouted again, and she flinched. They laughed at that, and the others copied. _Kotiha! Kotiha!_

Inej broke into a run, and their voices followed her all the way back to their camp.

She found herself again on the high wire, practicing obsessively. She found herself in the air, reaching for the next swing, and for the first time in years, almost missing it. She found herself refusing to tell stories, opening her eyes during prayer. She found herself holding her mother’s hand after her grandmother died.

_Inej_ , her mother said, voice soft and smooth and slow as she wiped away her daughter’s tears, _Do not despair too much, for she now rests with our saints._

And Inej had just sobbed harder.

She plucked white roses and scoffed at scales. She refused to do her penance, ignoring her mother’s admonishments and her aunts’ sad gazes. She walked the wire, again and again and again. She held her youngest cousin in her arms in the dead of night one spring and tried to soothe his crying, rocking him and whispering sweet nothings, all while desperation rose inside her. 

Her mother took him gently out of her arms, cradling him against her. _Hush_ , she murmured, her arms gently rocking, _Hush_. Then she started singing, singing of saints and stars and safety.

It was the same voice that held her transfixed as a child, the same voice that read out prayers and told her stories, low and smooth and beautiful. The sound of honey and spice and chocolate.

Inej slipped away.

Soon, it was summer, and they were on the west coast of Ravka, performing on the outskirts of Os Kervo. Soon, she was on the slave ship, trembling in the corner of the cramped cargo hold that reeked of fear and misery and old urine. 

The first few days were the worst. A couple of children tried to speak to her, but none spoke Suli, and the only one who spoke Ravkan, a boy around her age, refused to talk to her. When she wasn’t sick from the smell of waste and the roiling of the sea she was sleeping fitfully, or crying, or praying.

She never could sleep, and she hated crying, so it was the praying she spent most of her time doing, praying for salvation, or for a friend, or for the sea to rise and swallow the hellish ship whole. 

At first, her prayers were empty. Desperate, but empty. And yet, as the days passed, she threw herself at them with more and more fervour. When one of the captors came down and... used one of the older girls, she had prayed for hours, clinging to her faith and pulling it back to her, clinging to it because at least then she’d have something, in a place where even their bodies were forfeit. Later, she’d look back and realize it was those prayers that kept her sane.

Days passed -- or what seemed to be days, with no real way to tell the time -- and a new girl arrived. A young Ravkan girl dressed in white, perhaps ten, her hair in an elaborate braid and her face too soft, too young. She was pushed in, and fell to her hands and knees, her white dress stained by the filth and grime. She crawled to a corner and sobbed, sobbed wretched, heaving sobs that tore out of her. 

Inej made her way over to the girl and placed an arm around her. “You speak Ravkan?” she asked, softly, and the girl nodded. She patted the girl awkwardly.

“What’s your name?”

The girl curled up. “Anastasia,” she mumbled, still shaking, her voice small and heartbreaking. _Anastasia_ , her brain echoed, _like the Saint._

The only stories she knew were those of her Saints, so she told them, translating them into what Ravkan she knew. First, the story of how Sankta Anastasia cured the wasting plague. Then the story of Sankt Grigori’s drums and his bear, the story of Sankta Alina in the Shadow Fold. Somewhere during the story of Sankta Lizabeta, the other Ravkan child came over and sat cross-legged, listening. And in that moment, amongst the muck and misery of the cargo hold of a slave ship, Inej felt something. Something firm and pure and sacred. A spell woven with words and golden threads of faith. 

When the girl in her arms fell asleep, Inej wept.

When her tears had dried, she tried to remember. Remember her parents, her family, the time before the slavers. Blurs of shapes and colours and hazy faces. Her father parcelling out advice as he taught her how to sew a costume. Skillet bread, warm and fresh. Han Tzu with a wheelbarrow. A Suli wedding amidst the cherry blossoms in spring. One memory stood out in particular: that night, earlier that year, when her mother sang her cousin to sleep. She tried to remember the words, the tune, grasping at the memory of her mother’s voice and the lilting rhythm of the lullaby. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion.

She slept almost peacefully, then, her Saints back with her.

_Rest now, o’ little babe,_

_And do not worry so._

_Sleep now, o’ little babe,_

_And of this world you may let go,_

_For Saints are standing guard._

_O’er hill and meadow,_

_O’er sea and o’er wars,_

_O’er woods and fields of snow,_

_The Saints are standing guard._

_My child, you’ll never be alone,_

_For the Saints watch from the stars._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it? Hate it? Feedback?  
> All stories of Saints mentioned or alluded to are canon.


	5. Kaz

Hesitation was always dangerous. Hesitation, even just for a second, could kill. Hesitation meant enough time for a bullet to exit a barrel, for a hand to close around your throat, for a knife to slip between your ribs.

Hesitation was not something Kaz Brekker did. He was fast. He was decisive. He was brutal. Nevermind if it meant shoving handfuls of broken glass into someone’s shirt, or kicking a grown man in the groin until they doubled over vomiting blood. Nevermind if it meant slitting a little girl’s throat before she could scream.

Except, except, _except_ there was _something_ that made his hand stutter as he pressed the blade against her skin, something that made him pause. Maybe it was the fragility of her small face, or the way her lip trembled and her bones jutted just a little too much under her still-soft skin. Or maybe it was those glimmering slate-grey eyes, wide with innocence and fear.

And that single moment, that instant, was enough. He heard it first, the muffled shout of a warning, the whistling of a knife through air, and it was barely enough, barely enough to twist to the side, throwing the girl down to the floor, her landing punctuated by a scream. And still he felt it, the cold sear of a blade across his chest, slicing through flesh and sinew, the damp of spilt blood, the forceful pain as the knife cleaved right through his shoulder.

He stumbled. He fell.

When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was how _weak_ he felt. Limp and cold and frail and --

He stopped himself. He did not like the memories those thoughts brought up.

The next thing he noticed was the numbness and vague itch at his shoulder, and he wondered why he couldn’t move the arm.

Then he remembered the fight.

He shot up.

There was the distinct sound of someone crashing into a wall, and the itching stopped. And the pain started again.

For a couple bleary, painful seconds, he struggled to place the face in front of him. It was unfamiliar -- too soft and too clean for the Barrel, with the gentle tilt of Shu eyes. The Shu boy -- could he really call him a boy, when he was clearly older than Kaz himself? -- raised his open palms, eyes firm in their meaning: _I won’t harm you, lie back down._

Kaz took one look at them and sneered. The boy hit the wall a second time. 

“Brekker!” said a voice he couldn’t bother placing, “Good to know you can still fight, but dammit, don’t kill the healer!”

Kaz wasn’t listening. All he could focus on was his shirt, sliced open, soaked with red, his head running through the numbers and trying to figure out how much blood he must’ve lost. Too much. It was too much. The healer placed a tentative hand on Kaz’s arm, and he flinched, swatting the boy away with more force than strictly necessary. “ _Don’t_ ,” Kaz snarled, and the boy backed off.

_How close did I come to dying?_ Answer: Far too bloody close. And he replayed the moment in his head. Kaz Brekker did not hesitate, and yet -- the middle of a fight, and he had paused, he had hesitated. And he had looked into those grey eyes and he had _stopped moving_. And the knife had come. He had almost died, almost _died_ , while Pekka Rollins was _still alive_.

He could hear Jordie now, his voice ringing in his ears like the bells from the clock tower, and even the sear in his shoulder and the fuzziness in his head couldn’t drown it out. _You promised me, little brother._

_You promised me, Kaz._

It had taken half a bottle of cheap, watered-down whiskey for his shoulder to stop hurting. It took another half for Jordie’s voice to start fading into something ignorable. He would’ve gotten more, but the barmaid had taken one look at him and decided he was far too young to have another drink and not throw up over his shoes. 

She was probably right. 

But that didn’t stop the drink from feeling _good_ , didn’t stop the fury from rising up inside him. Fury at Pekka Rollins. Fury at Jordie. And fury, most of all, at himself. For forgetting, even for a moment, the debt he had to collect. He had been careless, stupidly so. It would not happen again. 

_Grey eyes. Smoke and stars._

Kaz looked down at his hands, fuzzy as they were through the drink, but still covered by the gloves that had made him so complacent. He pressed his palm flat onto the table, and could feel, faintly, the tug and slide of cheap leather on his skin. Rollins had done _that_ to him too. 

Kaz snarled. 

The hatred that rose in him was black. Pure and vast and black, the colour of rot and coal and the darkest depths of the Ketterdam harbour. And it was right. Neither Rietveld had emerged from that harbour. He owed it to them, that hatred. Jordie Rietveld had died, Kaz Rietveld had died, and in their place there was only Kaz Brekker, black with hatred and thirsting for vengeance. 

Kaz Brekker did not go soft. Kaz Brekker did not hesitate. Kaz Brekker was not haunted by the eyes of little girls, no matter how pretty or how young or how innocent.

That was Kaz Rietveld, and Kaz Rietveld was _dead_.

He threw the bottle onto the ground. It shattered. Heads turned to look, but Kaz couldn’t bring himself to care. _Let them see the fury. Let them learn to fear the fury of Kaz Brekker._

He drew himself up, straightened his back, and staggered out.

When the wound finally healed and Per Haskell stopped grumbling about “bloody stupid youngsters” -- for he never had let the Healer finish, had he? -- Kaz had found the little girl selling flowers by some old gambling den that, by means Kaz never understood, still managed to turn a profit. He had waited until sundown, and when the girl turned into an alley, he had killed her.

He didn’t torture her, of course -- it wasn’t her fault he was weak -- but it wasn’t a quick death. It was slow, slow enough to prove that he could. Slow enough that he could be sure Kaz Rietveld was gone. She screamed until she choked on her own blood, and when no one answered her, Kaz looked into her eyes and forced himself to smirk.

He wore no jacket, and underneath the thin, loose-fitting shirt, next to the scar on his bicep, was a black R. A permanent reminder of the debt owed to him, a permanent reminder of Jordie, and of Kaz Rietveld. A permanent reminder that nothing else, no one else, could matter more than revenge on Pekka Rollins.

He curled a gloved hand, sticky with blood, into a fist.

_Brick by brick_ , Pekka Rollins, _brick by brick_.


	6. Nina (and Matthias)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first ship fic (ish). Also the section that inspired the name for this entire fic. @erlasz and @wavesofinkdrops made fanart for this on Tumblr, but I don't know how to insert links on ao3 so you'll just have to search it up.

Though the night was clear, the waters were far from calm. Waves rocked the ship, delicate swells of water that looked deceivingly gentle in the moonlight. Matthias would’ve hated it.

Her knuckles were white against the railing, her face pale, turned towards the sky. Her hair was clumped and tangled, hanging limply over her shoulder.

_Look_ , he said, _Just over there. See that star?_

She couldn’t.

_Nina._

That _voice_. That voice, coarse and so, so gentle. The way he savoured her name, each syllable lingering on his tongue. 

_Little red bird._

So beautiful and so-- so-- 

Gone.

Her grip tightened. Her eyes closed. The night was cold, the kind of damp, bitter cold that stung on her skin and left her stiff and aching deep into her bones. She relished in it.

“Matthias,” she whispered, her heartbeat fierce in her chest. “Matthias.”

Her cheeks glistened with starlight.

“It would’ve been glorious, you know,” she said quietly, “We would’ve been here together. Just here, together, watching the stars.” She opened her eyes. “And we’d be heading off to Fjerda, and we’d save them. The Grisha. The Drüskelle. We’d save them together, you and I. And I’d wear all the ugly knitted skirts you want.”

Her breath hitched. 

She could picture it in her mind -- the snow, gently falling, resting on golden hair. His hand, warm, grasping hers. His face, turning. Blue eyes, fixed on her face, drawing closer, closer.

_Nina_ , he said. They were a breath apart. She could the warmth of his breath, mixing with hers, his body fitted against her own--

She blinked.

“And-- and we’d settle down in a little cottage, and go out for walks at night. Sometimes for waffles. Sometimes for celebrations. I’d flirt with blondes until they blushed but not, not if you didn’t want me to.” She smiled weakly, “I’d make you blush. Teach you fun, the way us shameless Ravkans do it. You would be scandalized. We could’ve tried Princess and Barbarian -- with you as the princess.”

She tried to laugh. It came out as a sob.

“Matthias,” she tried. _Matthias_ , the sea whispered. _Matthias_ , the sky echoed. _Matthias. Matthias. Matthias._

_Matthias, helping her up on that dark shore, the roiling of shame and gratitude in her stomach. Later that night, his bare chest beneath her palms, warming, relaxing._

_Matthias, injured and shackled, still as beautiful as she remembered._

_Matthias, watching her and Inej, clearing his throat. “Do not eat the snow,” he said, with every semblance of seriousness._

_Matthias, telling her stories as she trembled in the grip of parem._

_Matthias, kissing her, holding her, spinning her, pressing her against him. Her arms were around him. Her feet had left the ground. All that existed, all that was, was them. Her and Matthias, Matthias and her, intertwined as one._

_Matthias, dead._

_Dead._

_Dead._

The first lights of dawn were just touching the horizon when she pushed herself up from where she had curled up against a wall. Her movements were slow. Every part of her ached in some way or another, and she wondered if she could just find some corner and sleep the pain away, sleep until some storm came and the ship sunk and seawater rose and rose to fill up that emptiness inside her. And she’d wake up. And it would’ve all been a dream and he would be there with her, warm and _alive_.

She wondered if it would work if she just collapsed again where she was.

Then she let out a tired breath. Matthias wouldn’t want that. Inej wouldn’t want that. Hell, even _Kaz_ would probably prefer her functional, if only so she could offer him her services should she ever return to Ketterdam. She wasn’t really doing anything moping around like this, was she? So she straightened her back, lifted her chin, and started walking. She was Nina Zenik, and she’d dealt with heartbreak before.

(though never one like this)

She forced her lips to turn upwards and tried to feel like the Nina _before_ this whole mess. And if her eyes were puffy, if her smile wavered far too much, if her chest still ached with every breath that reminded her that _she_ was here while _he_ was not and the pit of her stomach still felt so hollow and empty and Matthias was still dead--

_Dead._

Gone.

Her steps slowed, and she looked back over her shoulder at the stars still scattered across the sky.

She took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered shut. Saints, everything _hurt_.

“We would’ve been glorious, Matthias,” she whispered, and her voice grew smaller still. “I miss you.”

She was still for a second, unmoving but for the shaky rise and fall of her chest. Then she turned and continued onwards, downwards.

Behind her, sprawled across the star-speckled sky, spanning, stretched between those points of brilliant light, lay the outline of a wolf. A wolf, looking over its shoulder, patient and watching. A wolf that stood guard over the ship and the sea. 

And as the sun peeked over the horizon, as the sky brightened, it faded from view.

**Author's Note:**

> The names are Scandinavian and the right time period, and I tried to pick ones that seemed similar to Matthias’. Lisbet is a shortened form of Elisabet, which was what a random generator picked, but I’d think of it as the Fjerdans acknowledging the bravery of a Ravkan saint without knowing she was a Grisha.


End file.
